Dialog Prompts (Season 3)
by Mylos
Summary: Small gap-fillers and missing scenes using season 3 dialog lines as prompts. One-shots all. Warning for spoilers, obviously. 1st & 2nd: two different scenes preceding season three. 3rd-5th: missing scenes from the monastery. 6th: Violence is looming, and Aramis must find his place in it.
1. Chapter 1

**_"We know all about the war here."_ **

**_x_**

"All are welcome who seek refuge inside these walls," the abbot insists, as he always does, and in this instance, Aramis agrees with him.

The visiting bishop doesn't, lilting his head in a way that makes Aramis think his true concern is from the frustration of being invited to sleep on the floor and to limit his meager portion of the monastery's provided sustenance. "But these refugees are _Spanish_ ," the bishop hisses. "They're the enemy. This is treason."

"You know well we are bound in our ministry as much to the Habsburg as to the Bourbon," the abbot reminds softly. "To care for them is our obligation."

"Besides, they're civilians," Aramis interjects, and receives a cautionary look from the abbas.

Nevertheless, he continues off Aramis's point, stepping closer to the Bishop. "The war has forced many through our gates. We care for them all, as best we can, until they are able to move to safety. Each here does his part. Brother Aramis is skilled in the practice of healing and stitching, which has proven invaluable. Brother Sorin, a skilled gardener. Others, we simply ask to divide their portions with another, regardless of who receives. We contribute where we can and share our supplies with those in need, as we must to honor our calling."

Eventually, the Bishop concedes, retreating with his escort to the brushed corner of space the monastery afforded him, but none of them are fooled. When the man leaves in the morning, they waste as little time as possible rushing the refugees in residence to the relative safety of outer locations. Both French and Spanish. For the visiting Bishop held the look of a man to whom it would not matter when he tells the tale, and Aramis knows soldiers well enough to know that some, when caught up in the hate of war, will not pause to distinguish origin if it means extinguishing a hidden enemy and having someone to vent anger on.

Thus, two days later, when a troop of impolite French soldiers search the premises for the spies the Bishop reported, only three of the smallest children remain in their midst - two Spanish, one French - and Aramis has practiced fervently with them so as to ensure not one of them will speak a word.

Mercifully, they don't, and the ransacking ends without incident – save for the blow Aramis takes to the head when he can't help but protest the removal of all their remaining provisions.

"There remains too much soldier in you," the abbot tells him later, while Brother Julian holds a damp cloth to his bloodied head. "Think of the example you set. You cannot fight them every time."

"The world is at war," he tells him back. "We cannot ignore that. Be we monks or no."

"It is, and we don't, but our role is different. We are not soldiers, and it is important that those who pass through these walls know it. We must be for peace, Aramis. We must live it. You cannot say you are for God, until you find a way to make this your mission."

Which loosely translated means, no orders yet. Not officially.

If only the abbot knew. Aramis thinks about peace all the time. He has three brothers without these walls, a growing number of children in his charge, and peace... peace is all he prays for.

"I will try harder, Abbot," he says instead, feeling subdued on several fronts.

Patting his shoulder, Brother Julian removes one bloodied cloth to replace with another. Meanwhile the abbot stands, the expression on his face caught somewhere between worry and exasperation.

"If this is the kind of trouble you stumble into as a monk, I despair to think how you survived so many years as a soldier."

At this, Aramis smiles, even through the throbbing and the blood. "By the Grace of God, dear Abbot. Nothing less."

From the phantom-limb space of his companions, he hears Porthos snort.

x


	2. Chapter 2

_**"Little thing called the war."**_

 **x**

"Hey," Porthos barks, skewering d'Artagnan with a glance. "What'd I say about re-doing your cartridges?"

D'Artagnan remains motionless, supine near the tucked-under wall of the tent, one arm slung across his eyes. The posture says more about the collected exhaustion from the past four days than words can, but Porthos is unmoved. "Hey," he repeats.

"I did re-do the cartridges."

Shaking his head, Porthos unslings his shoulder armor and weapons belt, hanging them near head of his roll, then reaches over to fix d'Artagnan's, readjusting for accessibility and biting his tongue against another lecture. Completing that endeavor and plucking up d'Artagnan's belly box, Porthos crouches near him and plonks the kit down by his head. "They're too loose. You're losing powder through the paper, which becomes a very easy way to lose your head from your shoulders."

D'Artagnan slides his arm off his eyes, revealing dusty streaks of mud, and the livid bruise he'd gained across his face when his flintlock hadn't fired. A common enough occurrence for any soldier on a line, but Porthos would never settle with d'Artagnan for common.

D'Artagnan sighs, ignores the cartridges and stares stiffly at the wavering ceiling. "When is Athos set to return?"

"Sick of me, are ya?"

"Of course not."

Porthos chuffs. "Not sure." He watches d'Artagnan's face, then distracts himself from a sudden run of unwelcome thoughts by pilfering his own kit for paper and tallow, and folds out his leather staging.

"It's been three weeks."

"Should be soon then. Come on. I know you're tired, but you do this now, you won't be caught off later when we're called back out. And I'd prefer you be alive when Athos comes back."

"I don't load fast enough even with the cartridges."

"You'll get better," Porthos grits. "Now sit up. Aramis had a trick with the tallow he taught me on our first campaign together – I'll show you."

Tension lights through d'Artagnan's body, and he does sit up, but to counter purpose. "I get it, all right! I haven't been a soldier since I was 17, like Aramis. I don't have ears like a bat, like Aramis, and I'll _never_ be able to load the pistol under 15 seconds, like _Aramis_."

Porthos feels his body shudder, a completely involuntarily tremble he can feel in his teeth. Even so, he finds himself leaning forward on reflex. " _Hey_ ," he breathes, sharply patient. He feels a lump rise in his throat, and can't tell if it's anger or longing. "You're doing fine. More than. But you need to learn this stuff."

"Sorry," is the sullen reply. "I just don't like being treated like… I don't like _feeling_ like a rookie again. It's not as though I haven't been in my share of battles. More than, in fact."

"War is different."

D'Artagnan blows out a breath. "So. I'm. Learning." His laconic tone emerges in direct opposition to the clipped spacing.

Porthos clenches his teeth and stares beyond the tent flap. They're fraying, both of them, the way that happens after long days of pushing lines. The way that he and Athos and… and Aramis, had learned to take in stride.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. I didn't mean that. Not the way it sounded," d'Artagnan says warily, losing some of the distance from his exhaustion. Who knows what he's reading from Porthos's silence, but –

Porthos shakes his head and the silence thickens.

"I'm sorry if I've been hard on you," they both say at the same time.

A short chuckle follows, and Porthos feels the tension in his muscles break for a space as he pats d'Artagnan's knee. "I'll try to lay off the Aramis stories for a while." He nods his head out the tent. "I'll get the boys to do the same."

"Don't. I like the stories. It isn't that. I — I miss him too."

Porthos rubs a hand to his head, glancing briefly at the ground.

"I just feel…"

"Compared?"

D'Artagnan shrugs. "I never felt compared to him when he was with us. But now…"

"Yeah." There's more he should say, he knows, but the words are stuck. He can't find them. Can't shake them loose.

"Right then," d'Artagnan finally says. He looks haggard, but determined, gesturing at the paper and tallow. Show me again."

Porthos sits back to make space, fingering and shaping the paper with the tricks Aramis once showed him. "I'm not expecting you to be him," he finally says. "No one is. This is just — "

"I know." D'Artagnan grins. "As Aramis would say — It's yet another thing I need to learn if I'm to be a good Musketeer."

It's weary when it emerges, but they both laugh.

x


	3. Chapter 3

_**"You still have that knack of getting into trouble, brother."**_

 **x**

Standing under the dark brick ceiling amidst casks of brandy, Athos feels a cloying sense of déjà vu. The dirt under his feet. The scent of honey on his tongue.

A monastery under siege.

Life repeats itself.

The barrels Aramis had tipped into their path as they'd unknowingly chased him through the shadows, remain askance in the dust in the narrow gallery. Leading into an intractable corner. Athos is loath to contemplate what the remainder of Aramis's plan might have been.

"Had you been the bandits," Aramis says, suddenly standing at his shoulder, holding a spitting candle in his hands, apparently able to read his thoughts as well as ever, "I would have pleaded for mercy and asked you to accept my blessings for your sins, and to allow me to join where my brothers are being held – which is in the chapel, incidentally."

Beyond the archway of the next corridor, Porthos chuffs and turns away pointedly at the word _brothers_. Athos glances reflexively, making Aramis glance also.

The next breath they take is in tandem, and Athos draws Aramis's attention back to him with a hand to his wrist. "And the children?"

"The children are here – not in the chapel."

Athos tilts his head meaningfully.

Aramis smiles and turns serious. "How would they have fared in my plan, you mean? They would have remained hidden. Having found me, the bandits would not search this space again." Aramis uses two fingers to extinguish the candle in his grip, then sets it on nearby crate, propping his elbow on the same. "They are young, impetuous at times, but know the needs of hiding well enough. As I said before, we know all about the war here."

Athos does not know if the last is said for his benefit, or Porthos's. Aramis does not glance behind them, nor raise his voice, and Athos himself cannot tell if Porthos is still listening. Still, Aramis's attention seems to drift. In the rougher light, Athos touches his wrist again. "Are there guards on the chapel now?"

"Without – not within. They have allowed the abbot's body–-" And here, Aramis falters, enough that Athos wishes he was at a better angle to see his eyes. "-– to be brought into the vestibule. I imagine our humble residents will be allowed to hold vigil until the siege's purpose is brought to fruition. Then be killed then."

Athos nods, and lets go of his wrist. The monks in the chapel are men Aramis must know well, he reminds himself - understanding as the counterpoint to Aramis's casual tone. He's worried for them, Athos can tell. "How long have you been here?"

Aramis tilts his head.

Athos clarifies. "After we saw you last, I had thought once you completed your isolation you were to remain at the priory – or to cloister in the Jesuit college, perhaps."

Even in the poor light, Athos tracks the tick in Aramis's jaw.

"It was overrun. Not long after I saw you last. The Hapsburg crown remains distrustful of the region's loyalty, and the Jesuit order has a reputation in the province not wholly trusted by France or Spain, as well you know. The dear abbot would have had me follow him into a priory after the order of Benedict, allowing me studies at the college of medicines, but rumors that spies were being placed throughout the colleges had reached the Irish exiles. And the English exiles grew nervous to have a Spanish looking former French solider in their midst. Therefore, after some… discussion… the abbot thought it smarter for me to reenter my contemplations in a quieter spot, nearer the French lines."

Athos listens for the slips in the paced tones, and doesn't interrupt. There are stories there. As many as Athos and the rest of them have buried under their own tongues. In a better time he would want to dig at them, and perhaps yet wouldn't. It was how they'd built the foundation below the feet of their early friendship, after all – loyalty and love without ripping off past scabs.

"To me, that was acceptable." Aramis gestures at their surroundings, at the children in the adjacent room. "This suited me better."

Athos rests his shoulder blades to the crate, giving it a measure of his weight. "We heard about the typhus outbreak and the quarantines of the friary last year."

Aramis changes his stance also, leaning so that they are shoulder to shoulder in the dim. "The illness traveled north," he says. "I was already here." A breath. Then another. "We heard of the heavy losses near Verdun. A lost troop fighting under a blue banner. We hosted the refugees moving north in the aftermath. We heard the stories for months."

"Different blue. We've not been on the eastern lines."

Aramis nods, quietly, and they stand for a moment in silence. If there are differences in his friend's face, Athos can't find them. And yet … see-through as they have always been to each other, there were always things they missed.

"Aramis." A small voice floats around the corner, one of the tinier children from Aramis's small squad appearing near the arch. "I can't find my hat."

Aramis's response is automatic as he moves, pressing Athos's shoulder before stepping away. "Oh, don't worry about your hat, I've got your hat." He walks gently towards the boy and picks him up, and sure enough pulls the hat from where he'd tucked it into the back of his roped belt. The boy takes it into his hands, crushing it in his fists as he rests his head down on Aramis's shoulder. He mumbles something then, in a language Athos is unfamiliar with. A Dutch dialect, perhaps, and is unsurprised when Aramis rumbles back to the boy in the same tongue.

Aramis looks over his shoulder as he rubs the boy's back, catching Athos's eye with a small smile before walking towards the other children.

A sad smile. A content smile. Brief. Genuine.

This place did suit him, Athos can not help but think. All the trouble he'd had picturing Aramis as a monk over the years, this part of the image holds no dissonance.

But then, Aramis had always been a study in contradiction. Prone to drawing faulty judgment. To being underestimated. Overestimated.

Misestimated.

More than once, Athos had thought over those last months they'd had with him – of what Aramis might have needed, and never said. Of what Athos himself might have seen and ignored. What he'd missed. What he'd dismissed. What they'd almost lost.

Losses and gains never trade without sacrifice, Athos knows. And he thinks Aramis, here, has not been the worst of those possibilities. Not the worst of blessings.

A shuffling of movement draws his attention from under the archway. Athos looks and catches Porthos's eye, but they do not speak.

One clings to family. And one loses it.

Life repeats itself.

x

Notes: As Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan did not seem to recognize the monastery in the pilot episode, it made sense to me that this was not the precise location where Aramis had started his religious journey. Douai, at this time, had a longstanding reputation of religious focus, and was built around several religious colleges and orders, notably some prominent institutions built and populated by religious exiles. The worry about interjected spies in times of conflict was not unheard of. Add to that, the entire region of the Spanish Netherlands was a politically complicated and culturally diverse place. Especially at this time. I imagine all four of our musketeers would have learned new languages to better serve their functions.

All that said, I'm playing loose and fast with these facts and how they fit into the story. No more or less than the show itself, however. For example, there was a typhus outbreak in Douai, as I allude, but in real life it happened several years later.


	4. Chapter 4

_**"Our reputation precedes us."**_

x

"You've made us famous," Athos drawls, languidly approaching Aramis through the shadows of the cellarage. "Or should I say infamous?"

Even before he looks up, Aramis can see the wry smile descending from Athos's face. He returns it when their eyes meet, while keeping nimble fingers to the task he'd set them to – winding cordage for the tunnel exodus – until Athos seats himself on the barrel next to him and draws a pause.

Seeking his face, Aramis stares without thinking, watching Athos without pretending that he isn't.

It's comforting, having him so near. Effortlessly familiar, despite the loss of days between them.

And yet, so very strange.

He can't help but remember the last time they were in a monastery together. Under siege.

It feels like something from a hundred years ago. And it feels like yesterday.

From the antechamber, a trickle of muted laughter drifts up from the children. They all know well enough to be cautious – to be quiet – in these circumstances. Aramis isn't overly concerned that it will grow out of hand. Still, he glances to see what's drawn their attention and finds d'Artagnan listening intently to one of Aramis's own stories about him, as told by Adele.

Undoubtedly being fact-checked by Luc.

Luc, the curious. Luc, the impetuous.

Luc, the brave.

Aramis smiles.

When he turns back to the rope on his knees, Athos is watching him, and not trying to pretend that he isn't.

"I've made you only famous," Aramis assures with a covering grin. "Never infamous. My stories were never from the perspective of our dearly departed cardinal after all. Though, Luc has grown disconcertingly fond of d'Artagnan's adventurous brashness. And there is infamy in that."

Athos huffs with a gentle smirk, but tilts his head after, watching, as though trying to read through the shadowed labyrinth of Aramis's mind.

That too, is familiar.

If anyone could pull off such a trick it would be Athos. Even here in a place so unfamiliar to their friendship.

The abbot, God rest his soul, would have appreciated Athos's demeanor, as Mother Superior once had in the place of Isabella's passing. Isabella's murder.

"The way those children look at Porthos," Athos says, "one might think they'd suddenly found themselves in the presence of a flesh-and-blood avenging angel."

"Or a giant," Aramis quips, though after a space becomes serious. "Children in these circumstances need avenging angels – heroes capable enough to chase away their nightmares and grant them sleep. I cannot think of anyone more fitting than the three of you."

"The three of us." Athos lifts an eyebrow. "What about you? I sense you have not made an appearance in these stories?"

"These are children of war. The stories are about warriors."

"We have been to war together. You and I. And Porthos." Athos eyes remain steady. Fixed. Kind.

Aramis feels a familiar pain flare below his sternum. Glancing over at the children and their audience, his eyes drift, crossing to Porthos before sweeping away. "Not this war," he says through dry lips.

Athos waits him out, reading him too well.

"The stories were for me too, of course," Aramis admits, casually as he's able. "It was a way to not think about…"

"What you feared?"

"Yes." He nods, breathing to keep the emotions under his skin from becoming too obvious. "A way to make you the victors of any nightmare I could imagine. It worked, more often than not. As you well know, I've always had a gift for romanticizing." He glances at Porthos again, unconsciously, reflexively, but doesn't linger, returning focus quickly to the linked rope across his knees.

In silence, Athos hands him another line. "We told stories of you too," he says, less subtle than Aramis expects. "We spoke of you often."

"It is not the same though, is it?"

Athos's eyes wrinkle, touchingly, and Aramis speaks again before Athos can say whatever compassionate thing is on his tongue.

"It's okay, Athos. You… you let me go… without ranker or blame, and I... I appreciated that, more than I can say."

"I let you go. That does not mean you stopped being my brother, nor that our oath was forfeit. By you or by me. Was it?"

"Not all of you feel that way."

This time, Athos is the one to seek Porthos's profile. "He missed you. In a way, you were always there, even those times when he wouldn't say your name."

Aramis flips the rope without looking up, weaving in another link. "My actions. My consequences. I don't blame him. I accept my penance. I accepted it long ago. It is no less than I deserve."

Athos's hand lands on his forearm. "No, you don't." His gaze is steady. More gentle than Aramis feels prepared to accept. Athos leans back, but the warmth remains in his eyes. "You have the right to live whatever life you wish. We all do."

x

Notes: This one is probably the least complete-feeling missing scene fill-in of the prompts I've chosen to jump off of, but I wanted to color in some of the conversation we saw between Athos and Aramis before the point where we joined it in-progress on the show. It's not the last Aramis and Athos have to say about these topics either, so there will be more conversational fill-in moments between them.

Upcoming, however: More between Aramis and Porthos, with eventual understanding and compassion on all sides. I tell you now, lest you think I'm reveling in the disjointedness of their relationship thus far in this episode. I'm not. There is more, in my version of events, to everyone's emotions and actions than the show delved into, and I want to tease that out more.

While each prompt scene I write should stand on its own, in a sense, there is an inevitable weaving together of a larger story... of sorts. So, that makes everything clear as mud, right? Good.


	5. Chapter 5

_**"The stories were true."**_

 **x**

"Is that really how it happened?"

The boy – Luc – is leaning forward with his question, shrewd eyes pulling d'Artagnan's attention from the rapt focus he's been holding on their storyteller.

It is not a wonder that d'Artagnan needs a moment. Adele is a gifted narrator, with dark eyes and a controlled but fiery energy.

Those aspects, combined with her name, are enough to make Porthos just the slightest bit suspicious about whether or not Aramis and the cardinal's mistress might have had a child they'd managed to cover up and secret away.

It's an unfair thought that hates him the moment it appears.

He shakes it loose by keeping himself still, angling his rough shoulder into the wooden joist at his side and closing his eyes.

In another life, he could have uttered the thought as a joke that would have made Aramis laugh. Now, it just feels ugly.

"That is... mostly... how it happened," d'Artagnan is answering, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck as though uncertain about whether to feel embarrassed or proud. He settles somewhere between the two, opting for a mild expression of chagrin. "I did confront the man who framed Athos and killed my father – that part is true enough – though I don't believe Aramis was quite so pleased with how I went about it at the time."

"He was there?" asks Luc, equal parts awed and suspicious.

"Oh yes, he was there. I wouldn't have found Gaudet without him. Well, without them. Him and Porthos." D'Artangan ticks a thumb in his direction and Porthos does his best to neutralize his face for the fast glances from the curious onlookers. "I will admit I was quite uncertain about what to think of them at the time. They were... interesting. And when you got down to it just a little bit scary. At least if you were a bad guy."

"But they helped you? Aramis too, I mean. He joined you? He really helped find Gaudet?"

"Absolutely. It was rough at first. We'd had such an unusual start to our acquaintance. Since I'd threatened Athos's life upon first meeting the three of them, you might imagine my surprise when Aramis and Porthos tracked me down and asked me to join up with them in order to hunt down the culprits of our collective misfortune. Especially surprising, since I believe Aramis in particular found me and my attempt at dueling Athos rather more amusing than formidable."

 _He's not wrong_ , Porthos thinks, remembering it. Aramis had been compassionate under his deflecting surface, but most definitely amused. Always amused, their Aramis.

At this news, Luc appears for a moment like he might laugh. Porthos can't tell if it's from the tone of d'Artagnan's telling or something else. Regardless, the expression disappears soon enough, pulled away as the boy narrows down to the seriousness of his curiosity. "But you did track down the murderer – you found Gaudet and his henchmen – if the story is true. So why wouldn't Aramis have been pleased with you?"

"Well, when we found Gaudet's camp and made our way in, Aramis was leading our approach. As we got closer, instead of listening to him and waiting for his signal to spring our attack, my anger got the best of me and I jumped the gun – screaming my head off and running into the camp like a man possessed."

D'Artagnan waves his hands above his head for effect and Porthos snorts, recalling it, even as the children giggle. He can't help but look over in amusement.

"So there I was, ruining our careful advantage and alerting everyone in the vicinity that we were upon them," d'Artagnan continues, shooting a grin and wink in Porthos's direction.

"And Aramis was angry with you for giving away the element of surprise?"

Rubbing his neck again, d'Artagnan sits back from the boy for a thoughtful moment. "No. No, not really. I think later he actually found that part rather amusing as well. Probably at the time also."

Luc folds his knees up, trading a look with Adele. "So, he wasn't really upset with you at all?"

"No, no he wasn't. Aramis was always very quick to find the amusement in life. He liked finding the humor, even in some of our most challenging endeavors. Or, our most boring ones. He used to tell jokes with Porthos when we were on guard at the palace, just to see if he could make Athos laugh."

Another smile comes to Porthos unbidden, remembering the first time he and Aramis had made it happen, but he stops himself when it makes his chest thump. His attention drawns down instead to the small girl in the group, the one who had kicked him – Marie – as she laughs softly, clutching a crude but finely sewn doll to her chest.

"Anyway, the rest of the story – as young Adele here so masterfully related – is mostly correct. After I ran into the camp, screaming Gaudet's name, Aramis and Porthos charged right after me. They are both skilled fighters, so we, of course, prevailed, with Aramis at one point fighting three at once."

The children murmur at this, purring at the apparent feat of brilliance, while Luc continues to play inquisitor. "But he won?"

"He did, indeed. And later, when Gaudet would have killed me when my back was turned – that part was true – Aramis is the one who called out to warn me and by so doing, saved my life."

"After Constance had already saved your life too, correct?" one of the other children pipes in, apparently feeling very strongly about this point.

"Infallibly correct." D'Aratangan grins. "I needed a lot of help that night."

"But you got him – the man who killed your father. And you saved Athos, just like the story."

"We did," d'Artagnan agrees. "All of us."

"And Aramis was with you the whole time?"

"Is that so surprising to you?"

"A little, I suppose. I mean, he's a monk."

Porthos can't help the chuff that that rocks out of him at that.

Collectively, the children stare at him. He's quick to school his features and in short order, d'Artagnan pulls their attention away.

"He's always getting after me for playing soldier," says the boy, "Telling me that there are better things to do with my time. Better lives to imagine."

And that. That stings. Porthos clenches his hands, curling them tightly around his belt while glancing into the adjacent space, where Athos and Aramis are talking, heads tipped together like not even the least of things have changed.

"I imagine he's not been anxious to see you run off and join the war," d'Artagnan is saying.

Porthos can no longer listen. Down the length of one of the longer corridors, he finds a supply room of sorts. Depleted barrels of grain and a crate with single line of pigeon eggs. In the opposite corner, rolls of cloth tied into bandages by Aramis's signature style.

He hears a scuffling and turns, wondering if d'Artagnan has come to look for him. But it's the child again. The little girl – Marie – hovering near the truss support as though ready for a quick escape.

"Are you a protector?" she asks.

He's cautious as he moves, getting down on one knee, like unto what Aramis had done, meeting her at her level. "Yes, I'm a protector," he answers.

She watches his face, but doesn't draw any closer.

It is enough progress perhaps, that she is speaking to him directly, without requiring the translation-mechanism of Aramis to take her whispers.

"Will you protect us?"

"Yes. I'll do all I can to get you out of here safely. I promise."

She nods, with her doll clutched in her hands. Then, light as a sprite, disappears from the archway.

In the absence, Porthos rubs gruff fingers to his head, and tries to figure out why that hurt so much.

x


	6. Chapter 6

**"Your _brothers_ are waiting."**

 **x**

There is a tingling in his palms. An itch steadily increasing.

He dislikes being separated from the children, perhaps. Now, as ever. And that is true enough. But no, that thought identified, settles nothing.

The itch increases, winding into his bones in a way he's learned through the years to neatly ignore. But now...

They will be lucky, he thinks, if the dawning day closes on no more deaths. Unusually, exceptionally lucky, to Aramis's mind. The kind of luck that comes with an unkindness of ravens or a murder of crows. The kind of luck Aramis has received as both blessing and curse, and for that last, he hesitates to pray for it.

"Are you certain you can get back into the chapel without being seen?" Athos asks him, standing at his shoulder.

His voice sounds unaffected.

Aramis once felt well versed at finding the urgency within Athos's lack of pretension. And that, at least, does not seem to have changed. He nods. "I'm certain. The challenge will be getting the others out without being seen. We are a peaceful order. They will not be of our kind of use if we run into trouble."

Athos breathes a pace. "I'll go with you."

"No." Aramis stops a hand to Athos's chest, feeling the itch writhe under his palm. "They know me, and I know the way. Better for just one of us to go."

Porthos snorts. A short, puffing sound of derision. Athos throws him a gentle but warning look and Aramis has to backtrack the sentence to locate the phrase that snagged Porthos's scorn.

 _One of us._

One of _us.  
_

He exhales and finds a hitch in his lungs. He doesn't let it show on his face. Moving through. Moving on. "The monks will not be able to move as quickly through the tunnel as the children. There are a handful more youthful than myself that will do well enough, but the others…"

"Go now, then," Athos says, handing him the wrap and robe that will act as his cover.

"Pace the timing," Porthos instructs, as though Aramis has not considered it. "Don't rush it. We'll keep eyes on the hall."

Aramis catches his eye and nods, regardless, holding the gaze without meaning to. Porthos.

Porthos.

The name rests on his lips, but he smartly keeps his mouth closed.

Porthos blinks his focus to Athos, withdrawing half a pace. "I'll update d'Artagnan," he says, and turns away. Walks away.

Aramis breathes through another hitch, ignoring it with honed precision, until Athos grips his elbow, unexpectedly pulling him into a quick embrace.

Startled, Aramis clings in return, fingers clenching convulsively.

But he cannot lose it now.

"Give him time," Athos says again, rubbing the back of his head, once, before releasing him.

"All the time he wishes," Aramis agrees, and swallows down the jagged barbs of icker in his throat. He means it. Though, how much time do they have, really, before they part ways again? One way or another?

Probably not enough.

There never was.

"Go," Athos prompts, patting a hand to Aramis's chest. "Get your brothers, then return to us."

 _Return to us._

Return to _us_.

His palms itch as he turns away, donning his cloak and marking the way to the chapel and the sequestered monks.

Return to us.

 _God_ , how he wants.

x

On his left, Francis keeps his eyes lowered, even as Aramis holds a quiet finger to his lips at the other heads that turn his way. "What's happened?" Francis asks.

Aramis throws him a look at the daftness.

"Yes, yes," Francis whispers. "Our sanctuary overrun; bandits nefariously plotting to kill us; our beloved abbot—" His lips thin, but he proceeds, "—murdered. You look worse than that."

"Now is not the time."

"Aramis?" Francis sits back, shifting on the bench more than he should to not draw attention, and turns his head, eyes worried. On the pew in front them, Aramis can tell John is also awaiting his answer.

"My brothers are here," he confesses. "To help us. Luc… After Luc rang the bell, he found them on the road."

John nearly turns around, but Aramis taps his shoulder as reminder to keep himself bowed.

"The abbot would have said it is a sign from God," whispers Francis. "To ease the resolution of your heart."

In front of them, John lifts his head, the shadow of his bushy red beard appearing from below his hood.

While still listening for sounds from the bandit-guards roaming the portico, Aramis gropes blindly for his rosary.

 _It does not protect you from others, only from yourself_ , he recites internally.

He crushes it in his palm, until the itching that was already there sharpens with the pain. "My dear Francisco," he says. "I'm afraid the abbot would not, at this moment, be at all pleased with what is in my heart."

He lets go of the cross on the rosary, feeling the dark imprint in his skin.

"Bow your head now. It's nearly time."

x

Notes: (1) Much as the show's budget seemed only capable of portraying the monks of the monastery as nameless, faceless props. We all know that would not have been reality. (2) As a reminder, "It does not protect you from others, only from yourself," is what Aramis says to Grimaud in episode 3.8 after he takes his cross from him.


End file.
